


Everyone Needs A Hobby

by gerbilfluff



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:23:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerbilfluff/pseuds/gerbilfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He could never stay away from the personals ads for long. Who could blame him? All those nameless, faceless dead-end souls, piled together like a catalog for captive audiences..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone Needs A Hobby

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This work of fanfiction contains strong sexual content between two men, including dicks going into places that dicks are generally not put into, even in slashfics. It also contains implied/threatened violence and a handful of naughty words. If you're not physically, emotionally, and/or legally old enough to handle these concepts, do us both a big favor and press the Back button NOW.
> 
> I don't own the Batman film trilogy. Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. and its license-holding subsidiaries do. Characters and concepts are being used without permission. No profit is being made from this file. Happy Fun Ball cordially invites you to recognize that it is, in fact, the goddamn Batman.
> 
> \-----

Everyone Needs A Hobby  
by Apricot the Gerbil

 

Chapter I  
Everything In Its Right Place

 

If he had to be honest-- and, really, where was the fun in that?-- then he might admit he didn't have a clue what his name used to be, or how he first learned to smile, _really_ smile, anymore. And frankly, he preferred it that way. 

Names were pesky things, after all. Apparently, in this big ol' world, you were only supposed to have one, and it had to last you your whole life. It kept dragging around behind you, getting bulkier and itchier every day people saw you wearing it, until you woke up one morning to find your name strapping you down worse than any straightjacket (and oh, he _knew_ straightjackets)-- until it became who you were _supposed_ to be. The people lining up for the news cameras would be all, _SURE, we knew old so-and-so. He'd NEVER do something like THAT. Not in a million YEARS._

And for something as important as a name, you weren't even allowed to pick what it was.

No, he liked to keep his options open. It wasn't that he _couldn't_ remember what'd taught him to see the funny side of life. Far from it! He'd have names, hometowns, and alibis bobbing up in his stream of consciousness a few dozen times a day. Problem was, they all sounded just as good... He figured, why play favorites?

But how does that saying go? "There're exceptions to every rule. Even that one." And oh, how true it was. No matter how many drivers' licenses, credit cards, home sweet homes, and neighbors with awful timing he'd burn through on his jaunts from one identity to the next, there were a handful of quirks that _followed_ him. Try as he might, he could never seem to shake them off with the rest of the shrapnel. Like the face paint. There was probably a story behind that one-- why he felt compelled to slather on some makeup before going out on the town. Always in the same patterns, too... If he was a weaker man, he could've probably made a fortune whoring his sob story out to the daytime talk shows by now.

But that would mean sticking to one story, wouldn't it? _Sniffle, boo hoo. Mommy used to pretty me up before she got out the frying pan. My uncle had a thing for clowns, and I'd get lonely after those escaped chinchillas ate my parents._ Talk about BORING. (Personally, he liked the version where he'd headbutted some circus freak in a bar fight, only to find out the guy was contagious. If nobody else was going to believe him on that one, it was their own loss.)

Oh, and purple! He couldn't get enough of it. Poor, misunderstood purple... Way back when, a purple suit was the ultimate don't-mess-with-me badge. The only people considered important enough to have something 'eggplant' in their wardrobe at all were the guys in charge. _Kings._ You wore it nowadays, and folks just assumed you wanted to screw over your fellow man literally. 

Then there was fire. Ah, fire... one of those perfect, unexplainable nuggets of nonsense the world snuck in to keep things interesting, the severed fingers in life's chili bowl-- like hearing some manatee in a tank top insist she wanted the _Diet_ Coke with her super-size fries, or how fish would shit their entire intestinal tract in one big, gooey stream if you squeezed them _just_ right. Fire never let him down. It made no sense, played no favorites. It made things transform. Made them disappear. Clung to things, grabbed them and loved them to _death_... at least, until it got bored and moved on. Yes, he could identify with fire. 

And in a place like Gotham, where the whole city lived, marched, and died to the drumbeat whims of little green pieces of paper-- paper that was so very, very flammable... gosh, it was a wonder he found time for a hobby at all!

Yet no matter who he was from one day to the next, he could never stay away from the personals ads for long. Who could blame him? All those nameless, faceless dead-end souls, piled together like a catalog for captive audiences. Calling, nay, _screaming_ to him from the newspapers and Craigslist posts and ad-rag kiosks on every street corner. Begging him to show them a little song, a little dance, a little bump-and-grope distraction from the fact that each and every one of them was going to die alone and afraid. The only place you'd find people more willing to bare their darkest, most dickcheese-curdling secrets to another human being was over in Arkham, and from what _he'd_ heard, the padded rooms there weren't nearly as comfy as the brochures claimed.

\-----

__**LOOKING FOR AN ADVENTURE**  
SBiWM ISO new thrills. 35yo 190lb 5'8"   
bla/blu. N/S, N/drnk/drug/dis, you be too.   
Prefer @ my place. No pet hair/slobs plz. 

\-----

It wasn't that his stereo was on that hit Brad first. It was the _smell_ ; so strong, so many flavors of putrid, that he jerked back in an instinctual full-body flinch, slamming his apartment door shut in his own face. 

Once he was done coughing, he grabbed the cluster-spray of keys still swaying from the door lock, if for no other reason than to stop it from jangling. Brad paused, staring at the doorknob... then at the back of his hand, closing over the knob. With the noise from his keys silenced, he could hear Orff's "O Fortuna" booming like a string-and-choral thundercloud on the other side of the door. 

A prickly unease washed over him, but before he could collect his thoughts, his hand turned the knob. His other hand tightened around his briefcase handle, then eased. He was going to stay calm. There he was, just like any other day, stepping into his apartment...

Right into the war zone.

He could barely recognize the sight before him as his living room. The fake crystal chandelier hung askew on its ceiling cord, all but two of its lights cracked and dark. The cream-colored carpeting he'd spot-checked with his vacuum cleaner before heading to work that morning was nowhere to be found, buried beneath an ankle-deep hurricane's trail of garbage. Catbox litter, old diapers... When he saw the flies swirling over an unrecognizable slurry of animal organs, he forced himself to look away, yanking his tie loose at the collar as he did so. He was going to have a fit, he knew it. Already, he could feel his pulse hammering in his throa-- _oh god his paintings_. Someone had drawn smiley faces over his original Francis Bacon. _Smiley faces._

His eyes spun, trying to land on something that wouldn't send him into a conniption. Nothing helped. There were pizza boxes propped open along the shelves of his TV cabinet, gaping like rows of cardboard snake jaws. Soda cans covered in grime bled dark puddles of purple and orange down his sofa.

There was _a man_ on his sofa.

Brad blinked, hoping he'd hallucinated that last part on account of the stench making his eyes water. But no, the stranger was still there, legs kicked up on what could still be seen of his coffee table, swishing what looked like chocolate syrup around in one of Brad's brandy snifters. His face was caked over in white, like an old-time minstrel singer in reverse, probably thanks to the sack of flour upended on the couch cushions next to him. With his threadbare suit-- a paisley pea-soup-yellow blazer over lavender pinstripes, the kind of color mismatch that could get a used car salesman gagging-- he blended in with the rest of the room perfectly; a rotting chameleon.

The stranger raised the glass to his mouth... which was outlined in bloody red smears, Brad noticed. Not just that, but it kept going, arching far past the point where mouths were supposed to stop, much like the charcoal insomnia-lines ringing around his eyes _(what's black and white and red all over,_ Brad's mind spat back helplessly) and took a long sip. Licking his lips, he turned to Brad and flashed him a chipper, syrup-browned grin.

"Hi!" he said.

Brad gaped at him. "What - _IS - this?!"_ he sputtered, gesturing wildly enough at the room for his briefcase to drop and clatter into an island of beer bottles.

The man seemed hurt. "That's it?" he asked. His lower lip puffed out to give Brad a quick tremble. "No 'hi, honey, how are you, how was work today,' nothing? Wow." 

And just like that, his pout vanished. He took another swig of chocolate, then raised the snifter towards Brad. "Well, uh. Let's see..." he began, lifting his pinky and ring fingers from the stem to gesture about the room, point by point. "The chicken livers, I found in the dumpster behind a charming little deli on Fourth Avenue. The _coffee grounds_ were from the Betty's Pies next door... Then I dropped by the old Rocket Burger down the street from here, and I swear, I don't know _who's_ been throwing away all those dead pigeons." He stretched his back against the sofa cushions with a guttural, alley-cattish sigh, sending a taco wrapper fluttering, and remarked, "Goes well with what I picked out for the kitchen, though, don't you think?"

A pause. Once the thought finally connected, Brad lurched into motion, crunch-stepping his way past an overturned crate of syringes. This wasn't happening. He was going to walk to his bedroom. He always went to his bedroom after he got home. He was going to take his suit jacket off, so he could put it back onto Thursday's hanger, where it belonged. Everything was going to be fine. 

Brad made it through the first doorway to his right. He flicked the lightswitch on.

And he stood there.

"Is that _ink?!"_ he wailed.

"I _know!_ Isn't it great?" came the stranger's voice. "I wasn't even planning on it, but I got to your computer room, and..." The man trailed off in a wheezy chuckle. "Well, what can I say? I've never seen anyone line up their printer cartridges by factory number before!"

Brad said nothing. His gaze was still frozen on his bureau drawer.

"Hel- _LO_ -oh?" That voice again. "Okay. Look. If you're mad about the urine, I'm sorry, all right? Spur of the moment thing. I was 'in the zone,' as the kids say. All those... creative juices, getting stirred up... Y'know how it goes."

"You ruined my sock drawer," mumbled Brad under his breath.

The living room kept talking. "Just think of it as an artist's signature!"

Brad said it again, whispering this time, as he watched himself rummage for the locked metal box he kept under the bed. _"You... you RUINED…"_ He spun the dials. Heard the latches open. _Crack, snap._ He could feel the sweat on his forehead rolling into his goatee. Dotting onto the shoulders of his business suit. Like his head was a little raincloud.

Pulling the pistol out of the case, now. Checking to see-- yes, the bullets were still in there. Brad got to his feet. Walked out of the bedroom. Held up the pistol to the thing sitting on what used to be his couch. He heard himself roaring at it: YOU _RUINED_ MY _SOCK DRAWER._

The stranger rolled his eyes and sighed, frowning through his drawn-on grin. As though he got guns aimed at his head several times a day. 

"You don't want to do that," he said simply.

Brad coughed, in an unsteady way that came out more like a laugh. His voice returned, sounding tiny against his panting: "Wh-what."

"I'm _saying_ it's a bad idea." The man squirmed where he sat, shifting towards a face-to-face view. "You see..." 

"Don't move!" Brad yelled. The gun jerked forward from the force of his shout. "Don't you MOVE!"

Without another word, the intruder lifted both palms flat in a cease-fire. The snifter dropped soundlessly to the floor, spraying chocolate syrup across the carpet.

Brad instinctively flinched. _"AAH_ I said _don't move!!_ See, you ruined THAT, too, you ruined EVERYTHI--"

"Oh, put the gun down, will you? You're not fooling anyone," the man interrupted. He sounded annoyed. "Swanky place like this? One shot, and in five minutes, the whole block'll be crawling with cops. What are you going to tell them? 'Officer, this guy made my room all _messy?'_ For all they know, your apartment just looks like this."

Brad stood board-straight, shivering. "So... but, then it'd be self-defense! I, I could..."

The stranger glared at him. "Give me the gun," he commanded.

Brad relaxed his grip around the pistol, then gave an empty gulp and squeezed hold of it again.

Those eyes. God, it was like staring into two stone coals.

_"GIVE IT!"_ roared the man.

Brad handed over the pistol. Even bowed his head a little as he did it.

"Ah," the stranger said, looking vaguely surprised. With a smile, he slipped the gun into the depths of his blazer. "Huh. Amazing, how often that works."

That was it. Brad's mouth opened, but there seemed to be nothing he could say, save for softly hyperventilating the garbage fumes in and out. So that's what he did. He let his eyes close, and just... swayed there.

It was in that pocket of silence that Brad realized his stereo was already partway through one of his relaxation CDs. Rainforest sounds. Strange... he'd never associated the rainforest with the overwhelming urge to murder someone before.

He could smell chocolate. Chocolate, if chocolate could go rancid. And it was warm, like... breathing.

His whole body clenched at the chuckle that puffed against his ear. The stranger was right there. Talking to him. "OCD case, right? Mm... tough break. Tried it a couple times, myself." 

Brad felt fingers smoothing through the rigid comb-grooves in his hair. Damn it-- he hadn't had the urge to bolt to the sink and start scrubbing in years, but this grungy maniac's germs were _raping his head._ He felt faint, barely able to hear the stranger's words... "I hope you realize I'm not kidding when I say this, too: that sock drawer of yours was a bone-a. Fide. _GEM._ I mean, the index cards? _Color-coded_ index cards? And the way you had 'em folded up in spirals like that, all counter-clockwise? Wow, I-- ha ha, I felt _bad!_ I really did! And you don't know me, I know, but... trust me, that's not something I feel too often!"

A sobbing noise squeaked past the bear-trap of tension Brad's jaws had become. He wanted to punch this freak. Shove him. Kick him to the ground, and keep kicking, until the flies he'd let into the apartment would _really_ have something rotten to nest in. And Brad knew he couldn't, because that would mean having to _touch_ him.

Instead, his legs started to move. He was going to walk to the kitchen. He was going to turn the hot water tap three times, wash this nightmare off of him, so he could _think,_ and--

And the stranger had stopped him. That ugly _filthy_ glove was still grabbing Brad's sleeve. "Hey, sunshine, where ya headed? We've got all night!"

"UGH!" Brad flailed his arm as far away from the other man as he could swing. "No. No, no... this is wrong. It's all wrong. You-- you need to get out of here, and you need to stop touching me!"

"What, like this?"

Brad gagged at the open palm grabbing his face. He sputtered-- and then yelped, as his balance sent him plowing ass-first into... something he wasn't going to look at, he wasn't, but it was something that _squished,_ and--

"...Yeah, see. This here's the trouble with your flavor of crazy," the stranger remarked. "When you get right down to it, there's no challenge. All someone's gotta do is shuffle around the books on your shelf, and-- _aaa! AAAA!!"_ he shrieked, swishing his arms about in a falsetto pantomime of the businessman shivering on the carpet. "--Boom. Game's over, you're done. And suddenly, all those other problems life tosses your way?" He shrugged. "Can't get that same kind of rise out of you anymore. And we're talking _little_ stuff, like... 'who is this--" The man's hand turned cartwheels in the air as he searched for a word, then hunkered down to one knee, hooking his arm around Brad's shoulder instead. "...this _weirdo,_ with his revolutionary ideas in interior decorating?' Or even, 'I wonder how many _sharp things_ he has tucked away in that snazzy outfit of his?'"

Brad felt a rush of air under his left ear. _Fwik._

He leaned back. Saw the switchblade jutting out from the man's fist. Blinked at it, numbly. 

_This is bad,_ his brain managed through its meltdown. _What is it you're supposed to say when you're getting robbed?_

"If... you're after money, I can, uh. Pay you."

"Oh, for--! Not _you,_ too." The man reared away from him, insulted. "Why does everyone think I want money? Do I _look_ like I spend that much time checking up on my stocks?" He sent one hand rooting through his own blazer pockets. The wad of bills he pulled out made even Brad's eyes widen. "I've got _plenty_ of money, I-- see, look at this! I don't know what to do with it all!" 

Noting the businessman's trance, he held the paper crumples up to Brad's face, close enough to elicit another flinch. "Ooh, pretty, yes. Munny munny munny!" he said, and shook them, singing, "Look at me-eee! I'm a bunch of dead guys on some paper! I get people to do all _kinds_ of things! That's all I'm good for! I'm no fun at ALL!" He finished with a gigantic, spittle-volleying raspberry that made Brad cough and sift frantically through his goatee from down on the floor. _"No_ no no. I'm only here 'cause I'm your nine o' clock. Thought I'd drop by early, tidy the place up a little."

Brad's fingers froze in mid-beardcomb. "My-- nine...?" he repeated, his expression blank.

"Ah. Got that here somewhere, too," the man replied, and let the money fall, patting his pockets on the other side. He fished out a small paper rectangle, torn around the edges and streaked with red marker. Raised it to eye level with one hand, pinky up. _"And_ I quote. Ah- _hem_. 'Looking for an _adventure!'_ In all capital letters, so I guess you really meant it. 'Essbee woom eye so new thrills. Thirty-five, yo.'" He winced at the newsprint, clucking his tongue. "And the teachers said _my_ spelling was bad."

"What? You were the--?!" The rage flooded back to Brad's face, even if his sputtering made it clear he hadn't the slightest clue what to do with it. "We were supposed to meet up tonight for _sex,_ you idiot! SEX!!"

Another pause. The man's mouth opened in a perfect _oh, shit_ gasp, then snapped shut. Frowning at Brad, he huffed, _"Well!_ I can see how there might be some misunderstanding going on here, but... honestly, how is this _my_ fault? You said on the phone, you wanted to mess around right away. That I could take the lead and everything." He shrugged. "You should've been more specific!"

_"I_ should've--?!" Brad echoed. His shoulders slumped like deadweights. Slowly, he shielded his face with his hands. A weak cackle leaked out from between his fingers to join with the sweat and tears already there.

"D'aww, shucks," he heard. "Guys with a sense of humor... always been my weak spot."

Brad risked a slow glance upwards. The maniac was sweeping the trash off the sofa cushions with one arm, leaving only flour and a few neon Cheeto-dust skidmarks behind. "C'mon. Siddown," he said, beckoning to Brad with a curved fist. The one not wielding the knife. "You look like you're having a long day."

What else was there to do? Brad struggled to his feet. Walked to the couch. Took a seat. He lowered his head to rest upon crossed arms and stiff knees. Panting. Folded over. Done for.

"There we go," the man purred, patting his shoulder-- until Brad jerked away. "Whoa...! Ha, ha. Still touchy. Well, don't worry, all right? Since it's all about _sex_ with you... which, by the way, between friends? I'd see somebody about that." He reached into his blazer once more, pinching clump after clump of bills free from his pockets. As they fluttered to the couch, he explained, "I... will give you... every dollar on me right now, which... there. That's more than enough to get this place cleaned up again. Not even illegal-immigrant kind of service, either. _IF_ you help me work off a little steam before I go."

He tossed his hands to either side, adding, "Or I can take off right now. All up to you. 'Course, I'd take the moola _with_ me in that case, but if you can't _stand_ the idea of slobbering over a ladykiller like me..." He smoothed a wave of crusty dishwater-blond hair back with his palms and swished his tongue across his upper lip. Somehow, it made the wink that followed even more disquieting. "I promise I won't take it personal. Some folks just can't handle this kind of beautiful. But either way, just give me the 'yay' or 'nay,' and I'll be out of your life, like..." 

He trailed off, giving an absent lip-smack against the silence... then inched his foot over to kick a half-empty pineapple tin loose from the coffee table mound nearby. A banana peel and two styrofoam cups slumped to the ground along with it. 

He let go of his hair and grinned at Brad, inspired. "Like a spring breeze!"

Brad's eyes weren't there to meet his. Instead, the businessman stared blearily at the cash scattered between the two of them. He wiped the sweat from his brow. Looked back at the man with flour on his face. "No. This, I won't... no," he said, shaking his head. "You don't get it at all. I don't want money _either,_ I just wanted a nice... just an easy way to come home and grab a quick--" His voice wavered for the right words, and when they came, he was too addled to filter them. "Well, I sure as hell didn't EVER want _you!"_

The man's frown creased the flour into a million little faultlines. "That's too bad." Those eyes. Staring, again. Too much for Brad to face head-on. "Because those kind of words… _hurt._ They really do. And I don't think you appreciate how easy it would be for a guy like me to take every kind of sex I can think of _from_ you, AND walk off with my money after, if you can't decide what you want me to do here, soon." His shoulders jerked in a stiff, off-angle shrug. "I mean _somewhere_ in this coat I've got my 'Do I Enjoy Raping People Today Or Not' dice, and I don't mind having to try for an even number twice in one night."

Brad closed his eyes against the thought. "I.. I believe you," he stammered quietly.

Even through the rest of the room, he could smell the man leaning closer to him. "I'll make the question easier for you. D'you want me to pay to get your sock drawer back the way it was, or not?"

Brad's hands clenched into fists. Then relaxed. Clenched again. 

As if he needed time to think it over. "It's your mess. You need to pay for it. I don't care what that means I have to do." He was going to sound confident. He was he was he _was._ "Um. So, what do you want… for us, to…"

The man smirked. "Just between you and me..." He slid his legs wider apart. Slunk a hand across the crotch of his trousers-- those stupid, _horrible_ purple pinstriped trousers. "I've never been one to turn down a good facefuck, if someone's offering."

Given his situation, Brad felt a strange sense of relief. "You want... a blowjob?" he asked. "That's it?" 

He found himself chuckling as he slipped down to the floor from the cushions, still careful to keep from mashing as much of the trash under his knees as he could. "And after that, you'll leave. Yeah. I can do that. Here, I-- I've got a..." He dipped into his back pants pocket, fumbling for the condom there. Hell of a way for it to finally come in handy, but he _knew_ it'd been a good idea to start carrying one around. 

He'd gotten it out of the tiny plastic bag he kept it in, and was lifting it up to present it to the other man, when the stranger clamped his hands over Brad's face from both sides. Then calmly leaned in and ate the condom.

Four chews, and he swallowed it. Wrapper and all. 

It was in the silence that followed that Brad realized those lipstick lines weren't lipstick; no, they were _cut into his mouth._

He realized that his head was trapped where it was, and the knife was still wedged between the maniac's fingers, and-- and... 

...and all of a sudden, the stereo whirred. The disc tray glided softly through the randomizer's clicks until the sound of ocean waves and a cheery hand-strummed guitar filled the air.

_Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea,  
Swim so wild and you swim so free…_

Brad didn't own a Raffi album.

His mind raced. This other man's CD. Scooting who knows what all over the inside of his stereo. Right now. He jerked against the stranger's hands; yet another desperate beeline for the kitchen faucet, foiled before it could begin. 

The man peered closer at him. At the fly that landed and skittered across his cheek, prompting an exhausted-sounding nonsense groan.

"You know," his captor remarked, "I've always wanted to try it up the nose."

The muscles in Brad's face visibly relaxed. He'd heard the words just fine, but even coming from a psycho, that last sentence didn't line up right. "Wait. _What?"_

The stranger continued, musing along as though Brad had never spoken. "See, the way I figure, it'd be just as rewarding being on the receiving end. Just think: you could have nothing but head colds the rest of your life, and blowing your nose'll still never feel as good as after that time you got it on _nosejob_ style, right?" With a curl of his lip and a snort, he made a noise that brought to mind the most hideous sidewalk runoff imaginable.

After he was done savoring the way Brad's whole frame rattled in terror at the impending death loogie, the man simply swallowed, and went on: "You could carry it around in a Kleenex afterwards, even! Like your own little Jackson Pollock, right in the palm of your hand. Heh. And talk about icebreakers... Whip out a bad-boy hanky like that, and you're set!"

Brad gaped at the erection suddenly bobbing in front of him. Stuck where he was, it was all he could see-- a giant, veiny tower of pubic frizz and meat gone bad. The man's fingers were sliding around it, blurring the view as they pumped up and down. _When did he unzip his pants?_ was all Brad could think.

_Moon is shining and the stars are out._  
Good night, little whale, good night.  
Baaaaby beluuuuga... 

_God-- FUCK YOU, RAFFI! Stupid belugas-- I hate you, I hate EVERYTHING! Why haven't I passed out yet?!_

...And then, it hit him.

_Yes_. He could still win this.

Brad's eyes inched up, past the penis, until he met his captor's gaze. He grinned. "Hey. Th..that's not going to fit," he pointed out. He shook his head what few inches he could, snickering into a pinstriped thigh. "Seriously. There's no way."

To Brad's immediate giddy relief, the stranger paused. The scars pulled a frown monster-wide across the man's face. "Huh. You know, you're right!" he murmured.

_HA!! I DID IT! You're not ruining MY nose, you--_

_\--what. No. Why is he…_

As he tightened the headlock he had around his date, the Joker readied his switchblade. He brought the tip to rest against one nostril's perfect pink edge. Traced it around the hole, slowly, real delicate-like.

"Well. Momma always said, 'Where there's a will...'"

 

It got kind of screamy after that, but he made it fit.

Good thing it was only a one night stand, though... His date sure didn't mind getting the carpet dirty when it was with his _own_ shit. 

If there was one thing the Joker couldn't stand, it was a hypocrite.


End file.
